Home Game

by Endre Farkas

Even though Tommy was strapped up, had the tallit over his shoulder, was rocking back and forth like all the other men, he still felt like an outsider. He mumbled the words but didn’t really know what he was saying. Though he wanted to, he didn’t feel connected or like he belonged to the Chosen. Most of his buddies, mainly soccer players, were non-Jews. And, of course, Marianne, his mother often reminded him, was a shiksa. He was glad that none of them could see him like this. They—well, maybe not Marianne—would have ribbed him about his strange get-up.

  As they prayed, Tommy wondered how wearing this stuff and praying would help Israel. It certainly hadn’t helped during the war. But six days later, little Israel, born the same year as him, and led by a one-eyed David, defeated the Arab Goliath.

  25

  “What kind of Hungarian are you?”

  Tommy was caught off guard by Mr. Papp’s question. He had come by the bookstore to pick up his father’s newspaper and his mother’s magazines. The Story, the only Hungarian bookstore in Montreal, was kitty corner from his aunt’s restaurant on Prince Arthur Street near The Main. The one block was called Little Pest by the Hungarian immigrants in the neighbourhood. Many single men who lived and worked in the area frequented his aunt’s restaurant and congregated in Mr. Papp’s bookstore because they were hungry for home-cooked meals and homesick for news, serious discussions of soccer and politics. They wanted respite from their immigrant world and the comfort of the old familiar one.

  Hardcover books filled floor-to-ceiling shelves on two sides. The third shelf, behind the counter, was filled with Hungarian classical, popular and Gypsy music. On either side of the door were neatly organized racks of magazines. And in a corner, next to the heater, were a couple of chairs, a coffee table and a leather armchair where Mr. Papp often held court.

  Mr. Papp, a tall slim man with Old World airs, immaculately coiffed hair and a pencil-thin moustache, ruled here. In his starched and pressed indigo-blue lab coat, with a feather duster tucked under an arm, he patrolled and protected his dominion.

  You could look but weren’t allowed to touch. You told him what you wanted, or he told you what you wanted, and he got it for you.

  Mr. Papp was also a proud sponsor of the Hungaria team and was its unofficial scout as well as the soccer and culture reporter for the Montreal Hungarian newspaper. He had been after Tommy to play for Hungaria since he made the university team. He even attended Tommy’s games and had written about, as he put it, his exploits. He was the one who got Hungaria’s manager to call Tommy for a tryout.

  “What do you mean, Mr. Papp?”

  “You’re Hungarian, aren’t you?”

  “I was born there, but I grew up here.”

  “That doesn’t matter. You are a Hungarian. What do you know about Hungary? Of its history, art, music, literature?”

  Tommy scanned the books and records on the shelves. “Not much. Just what my parents tell me. I don’t read Hungarian.”

  “It’s a shame. Hungarian history is important. You should know your motherland’s stories.”

  Tommy never heard his parents refer to Hungary as their motherland. They spoke longingly of family but not of country. Usually, the country was remembered with bitterness and anger. He didn’t understand what Mr. Papp was getting at. He’d always thought his formality in speech and dress strange. “I remember reading The Paul Street Boys when I was very young and liking it very much.”

  “Yes. That’s a wonderful and important novel. I have a copy of it,” Mr. Papp said and walked off to get it.

  “I can’t read Hungarian anymore,” said Tommy. But by that time Mr. Papp was back with the book.

  “Here you are.”

  Tommy didn’t want to spend any money on a book he wasn’t going to read, though he now felt obliged to buy it. He reached for his wallet.

  “It’s a gift.”

  “I can’t. Really I can’t.”

  “I insist.”

  “Thank you,” he said, with hesitation.

  “It’s important to know your country’s history, art, music, and literature, especially when you are going back as a representative of its diaspora.”

  Diaspora? Tommy didn’t want to sound stupid so just nodded.

  “You know, I wrote about you last month,” Mr. Papp said.

  After the team had won the championship, Mr. Papp had described Tommy as a fine, finesse player. Tommy’s father carried that article in his jacket pocket and showed it to everyone he spoke to. Even if they didn’t read Hungarian. But Tommy didn’t know about this article. “Thank you.”

  “This time I wrote about you for the Hungarian People’s Sports Daily. It’s the Hungarian national sports newspaper. I mentioned that you were the captain of the Canadian university championship team that was going to Hungary to play. It will be published in a week or so. I will save a copy for your father. You will probably be the spokesman for the team since you speak Hungarian.”

  “He’ll be thrilled, but you shouldn’t have. I don’t speak Hungarian very well. I don’t think I would be a good spokesman. I was eight when we left.”

  “Well, no one else on the team speaks the language. I don’t think you have a choice. And you are the captain.”

  “Co-captain.”

  “No, captain. Roberto doesn’t speak Hungarian. That makes you captain. Therefore, from now on, when you come in, and I hope it’s more often, we will speak only Hungarian.” With that he switched to Hungarian. “And there is another book you should read.” He went off and came back with it. “The Complete Poems of Attila Josef.”

  “I can’t take it, Mr. Papp.”

  “It’s my contribution to your Hungarian education,” he said, placing it in Tommy’s hands. “It’s important to know where you came from.” He patted his hand.

  Tommy went to put the books in his gym bag.

  “No. Books do not belong in gym bags,” he said and reached under the counter to get a bag with the store’s name and Hungary’s crest, the one before the hammer and sickle, the one with the cross. Tommy was anxious to leave but Mr. Papp was as anxious to keep talking.

  “And you should get a haircut before you go to Hungary. You’ll be representing all Hungarians in Canada. You have to look like a proper Hungarian.”

  Tommy looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, Mr. Papp, but I do have to go. My parents are waiting for me.”

  “Very well. I look forward to continuing this discussion.” He had an earnest look on his face. “By the way, that was a very unfortunate accident that happened to Horvath,” he said with a smile.

  26

  Tommy’s bedroom walls were decorated with banners, team pictures and plaques. Most of his bookshelf was occupied by trophies: high school Athlete of the Year, basketball, volleyball, Rookie of the Year medals and his precious Canadian University championship miniature trophy. He had devoured books when he was young but wasn’t much of a reader now. He read only what was assigned in school. However, since meeting Marianne and Naomi, he felt the return of the desire to read. Naomi had lent him Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha.

  Lying on his bed, flipping through The Paul Street Boys, he remembered fondly his mother reading the boys’ adventures to him, and once he learned to read, enjoying the book on his own. Nemecsek was his favourite character.

  “What are you reading?” his mother asked. She put a load of folded clothes on the dresser. His mother had a habit of just walking into his room without knocking whenever she felt like it. Whenever he objected, she would ask, “What can you be doing that you should close the door and I should knock?” She didn’t think children had a right to privacy, even when they were nineteen.

  “The Paul Street Boys. Mr. Papp gave it to me.”

  “We still have your copy.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t you remember? We brought it with us when we escaped. You insisted on it.”


  “No.”

  She left and returned with a dog-eared book.

  “I remember now. I brought my soccer ball too. Did you keep that too?”

  “No. You kicked it into the ocean.”

  “I what?”

  “We were coming to Canada on the ship and you were playing soccer on the deck with some of the sailors. You kicked it and it went overboard.”

  Tommy laughed. “That I don’t remember.”

  “You cried for days. Did you get this from Mr. Papp also?” she asked picking up the other book.

  “Yeah. He said I needed to know more about Hungary.”

  The sky shuts its blue-blue eyes

  The houses too shut their many eyes

  Under eiderdown sleep the fields

  So, you too, sleep sweetly, my darling young son.

  His mother’s eyes misted as she recited by heart. When she finished the poem she muttered under breath, “Rotten louse.”

  “What? Why is Mr. Papp a rotten louse?”

  “Oh no, not him.” She went silent again.

  “What? Who?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve forgotten a lot,” she said shaking her head. “When you were in grade one in Hungary you were learning this poem. I helped you to memorize it. You were so proud that you knew it perfectly by heart and I was looking forward to hearing you recite it in front of your class and all the parents. But a week before the recital, your teacher, Mrs. Gombás, that rotten louse, called you a dirty little Jew and kicked you out of class. You don’t remember?”

  “Now I do.”

  “Good. Don’t ever forget. They won’t,” she said and dropped the book on his bed. “Oh, a girl, a Naomi called and asked you to call her. She left her number. Is she Jewish? Naomi is a Jewish name.”

  “All is almost forgiven,” Naomi said.

  “Huh?”

  “Why don’t you come over tonight? Around eight for green pasta and green grass.”

  He laughed. “For sure.”

  As he had driven home after his fight with Marianne, he had replayed what happened. He was new to this. It was their first fight. He didn’t think he had done anything wrong. He just screwed up. He had apologized but it didn’t help. What could he say? What could he do? It couldn’t be undone. He didn’t want it to end like this. He didn’t want it to end at all. Tommy wanted to talk to somebody, but he couldn’t think of who. Certainly not Speedy. Or Schmutz. Guys didn’t talk about stuff like this. When the guys on the team had fights with their girlfriends, it was usually about the girls not putting out. Guys usually got together in taverns and over a few beers, cursed them, called them teases and then next day, tried to make nice to get back together.

  He’d parked, shut off the engine and sat there staring at the house. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten home.

  27

  “Open up, you son of a bitch!”

  The three of them jumped. “Who the fuck is that?” Naomi hissed.

  “It’s Roberto,” they said almost at the same time.

  “Open up!” Speedy yelled as he banged on the door. “I know he’s in there. I’ll beat the shit out of him!”

  “Oh, fuck.” Naomi grabbed the baggie and ashtray and shoved it under the sofa. “Go away before I call the cops,” Naomi shouted back.

  “I’ll beat the door down.”

  “Let him in,” Marianne said.

  Tommy stood up. His stomach was churning. He balled his fists. Speedy had a temper. He’d seen it flare in games. That Gypsy blood. Marianne had it too, but in her it was exciting and wonderful; in him, it was just dangerous.

  “I’ll kill you!” Speedy shouted as he barrelled past Naomi and rushed at Tommy.

  Tommy was stoned and not sure what to do but Marianne stepped in front of Speedy like a matador. “You loco. Stop!” He raised his hand to hit her but she didn’t flinch. “Loco!” she shouted again.

  “You puta!” He shoved her aside and went for Tommy.

  “Speedy, stop!” she shouted but he was already tackling Tommy, who was trying to avoid being hit by clamping Speedy’s arms. They rolled around, banging into the furniture, bunching up the carpet and knocking over a lamp.

  “Fucking stop it!” Naomi screamed. “This is my place and I’m telling you animals to fucking stop it!”

  Marianne and Naomi grabbed at them and tried to pull them apart. Marianne had Speedy’s collar, while Naomi was on her knees between the boys pushing Tommy away. Reluctantly they got to their feet and stood glaring at each other. Speedy was ready to go at it again.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are, barging in like this? The cops?” Naomi screamed at Speedy.

  “I’m her brother and I’m protecting my sister.”

  She was pushing him toward the door. “No, you’re not. You’re being an asshole.”

  “It’s not your business. This is family.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You fucker!” Speedy spat at Tommy.

  “You pig!” Naomi said and slapped him. He stared at her. Though she was much smaller, she didn’t seem intimidated.

  “Papa’s gonna kill you. Mama is going to claw your eyes out.”

  Marianne stared back at him, saying nothing.

  “Why did you do this to my family? You bastard son of a bitch,” he shouted at Tommy.

  Tommy wiped his face. “I love her.”

  They all looked at him. He was surprised too.

  “Bullshit. You’re just saying that so you can screw this puta,” Speedy shouted.

  “Fuck you!” Tommy shouted back.

  “You couldn’t find one of your own kind to fuck?”

  “Out, you pig, or I’ll call the cops,” Naomi said and picked up the phone.

  He hesitated. “Let’s go,” he yelled at Marianne.

  “No!”

  He glared at the three of them with murder in his eyes. “We’re not finished,” he growled and left, slamming the door.

  No one said a word. Naomi got the broom and dustpan and swept up pieces of the lamp.

  “Shit!” Marianne said, sitting down. She was shaking. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” she repeated over and over again. She began to cry. Naomi went over to the couch and cradled her. Tommy had never seen her cry. He felt angry and helpless.

  “They’re going to kill me for sure. I’m gonna get kicked out.”

  “No, they won’t. And if they do, you can move in with me,” Naomi said, trying to comfort her.

  “Are your parents that old-fashioned?” Tommy asked.

  “And yours? Are they so modern?” she snapped back at him.

  He was silent. “No. You’re right.”

  “But because you’re a guy it’s not such a big deal. You’ll just get the usual ‘don’t get her pregnant’ speech. Have fun but don’t be serious ’cause she’s a shiksa,” Marianne said.

  “But I mean it,” Tommy whispered.

  “What?”

  “That I love you.”

  Marianne gathered her stuff. “I better go.”

  Tommy’s parents were in the kitchen waiting for him. He had hardly got in the door when his mother started in on him. “What’s the matter with you? Why did you lie to us? Why did you tell us that you were going to be with Speedy and Naomi? Speedy called looking for you. What’s happening to you? Who is this Naomi?”

  “We’re just friends.”

  “I told you before, a boy and a girl can’t be just friends.”

  “But that’s what we are.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I like Marianne.”

  “Speedy’s sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “You see? I told you boys and girls can’t be friends. And she’s not Jewish.”

  “Tell me somethin
g I don’t know.”

  “Don’t be a smart alex,” his father said and poured himself a glass of soda water. He always drank Eskimo soda water when he was upset. He said the bubbles settled his stomach.

  “I’m not being a smart aleck. And it doesn’t matter to me if she’s not Jewish.”

  “It matters to me,” his mother shouted.

  “I know and that’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “I just started seeing her, but I like her a lot.”

  “Does her family know?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?

  “She didn’t tell them for the same reason I didn’t tell you.”

  “See? This is nothing but trouble.”

  “Not for us.”

  “You’ll see. The first time you have a fight, she’ll call you a dirty Jew.”

  “No, she won’t! She’s not like that.”

  “They’re all like that. The whole world is. Didn’t you see what happened in Israel? Just you wait. Aren’t there enough nice Jewish girls in Canada? We didn’t come all this way for you to be with a shiksa. I don’t want you to see her.”

  “I want to. I will.” He stomped off to his room and slammed the door. He pressed his fingers against his scar. His head was pounding.

  28

  It had been a couple of weeks since Tommy’s fight with Speedy. He called Marianne at work every day to see how she was doing.

  “The shit hasn’t hit the fan yet. I don’t know what he’s waiting for.”

  “He’s not talking to me,” Tommy said.

  “Me neither.”

  “Maybe he’s waiting for you to make the first move.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “I want to see you.” Still nothing. “Want to go to Expo on Sunday?”

  After a long pause, she spoke. “Yeah,” she said, as though she had made up her mind about something.

  He felt relieved. “Great. I’ll meet you at the Berri métro at ten.”